


Tree of Knowledge

by Rysler



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Casual Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Lesbian Sex, One Night Stands, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3688968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rysler/pseuds/Rysler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zoe's been getting texts from Thornhill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tree of Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers. Through 4x18, which has some very interesting production notes (http://personofinterest.wikia.com/wiki/Skip). 
> 
> Note: Root always ends up crying by the end of my fics. 
> 
> Note: This is srsfic, but also kind of also inspired by Why Isn't There More Fucking On This Island? (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cIl0rYbW_hU).

Zoe was unsure of what to do next. 

She'd finished her lunch meeting at Del Frisco's, a little heavy on the filet mignon and the champagne, and normally when a long afternoon stretched before her, if she didn't have fittings or shopping to do, she'd go home for a siesta. No one made deals after lunch, no one conspired, and she needed to be ready and reserved for the next round--dinner.

Her schedule was clear. Her day--Her phone chirped.

Dread settled into her. Dread she tried to ignore by keeping busy, by pretending she wasn't an expert in sea change, by pretending the secrets men whispered to her at night actually made sense.

She hesitated to check. Would it be from John or Harold? Or worse, Elias. Or the new number that kept popping up with its cryptic texts--Thornhill. She was sure she'd never met a Thornhill, had Googled him and ended up at North by Northwest. Definitely not a good sign.

Maybe the defunct Thornhill Corporation was a better lead. But it had gone out of business two years ago, its demise as quiet as its rise. 

She checked her phone. Client Appointment. 2 PM. Her office.

She had never once met a client in her office. She rarely went there herself, a two room suite on the fourth floor of a bank in Manhattan, she used to feel safe there, and something of a private dick. It used to be a refuge. 

Now nothing was a refuge.

The appointment had no name. She lingered on the sidewalk.

A text popped up. Thornhill, with the address of her office. 

Excitement cut through the dread. Maybe she'd get to meet him after all. For all her misgivings, Thornhill led her to treasures unmeasured in information, and cash measured in 80,000 for a consulting fee. Of which Harold had borrowed half.

She frowned at her phone.

It was just a phone. Not a creature. She gave in and hailed a cab.

***

A woman sat in her inner office, in the chair--$200, all mesh, with lumbar support--in front of her computer--a fake, not even a hard drive inside. The woman looked familiar.

"I'm sorry," Zoe said. "I've forgotten your name."

"We haven't met. Not formally." The woman got up. She had legs up to her neck, the perfect shade of lipstick, and manicured nails that moved toward Zoe like sharks.

Zoe shook her hand. "Zoe Morgan."

"People call me Root."

Another tingle of familiarity. Zoe tried to chase it, came up with nothing. Unlike her. She practiced memorizing names and faces for hours every day. Flashcards helped.

The woman before her made her feel face-blind. "Root." Zoe let go of her hand and waved Root into her own chair, and sat down herself in the guest chair.

Root smiled, descending elegantly. 

"What can I do for you?" Zoe asked.

"I'm not entirely sure. Which is just how it goes with me. But not often with you. You're always so sure." 

Zoe said nothing. She was excellent at not taking bait.

Root opened a purse and pulled out a photograph. One Zoe had a copy of on her nightstand. 

"I believe we have a friend in common," Root said.

John.

"Thornhill."

Zoe exhaled. "You know him?"

"Some would say he's a she." Root's smile was cryptic. And annoying. "I just know that Thornhill's been sending you texts."

Zoe bit her lip.

"And sending you on missions. Little missions. Nothing dangerous. Small fish with surprisingly big rewards."

Zoe considered, then let herself meet Root's eyes. "I'm not the only one."

"No. And we didn't put it together. Not right away. But you've already deduced I'm a friend of Harold's."

"And John's," Zoe said. Mostly to reassure herself.

"No, not so much his friend." Root smirked. "But we're on the same side. And you're on our side."

"Sure," Zoe said.

Root put the photograph on the desk. Joss, Sameen, and herself, making a Charlie's Angel pose and laughing at the camera. Fusco had taken it, and several more. It made his day. And it was a Polaroid. Not digital. Untraceable. 

"You, Joss Carter, and Sameen Shaw," Root said, an edge to her voice. "I assume you know what happened to them?" There was an edge to her voice.

"To Joss. Shaw--John just said, 'She's gone.' The last time I saw him. No details. But I could tell," she added quickly. "He was crushed by it."

"We were all crushed by it." Root made a fist, tapped gently on the desk. "But here you are. The last woman standing."

Zoe wondered if she should feel anything more than numb, looking at the faces of her dead friends. Terror, perhaps? Just sadness she tried to bury.

"Martyrs to the cause. But there's still me, of course."

"Okay, and what are you doing here?" Zoe asked. She'd talked to psychotics before, always best to get straight to the point.

"Do you know Nick Dawson?" Root asked.

"Yeah. But I don't like him."

"I want you to set up a meeting with him."

"Now?"

Root looked at her as if she were stupid.

Zoe tried again. "I don't suppose he's here in the city."

"Albany," Root said in a sing song voice.

"I fucking hate going to Albany," Zoe said. She got out her phone.

"That phone itself is a goldmine of secrets," Root mused. Then, in the sing-song voice again, "Road trip."

***

In the car, which Root drove, Zoe gave in and called John.

"Did she hurt you?" John asked, first thing.

"We're just... on a mission, or something," Zoe said.

Root nodded approvingly.

Harold's voice broke in. "I don't mean to alarm you, Ms. Morgan, but the fate of the world may be at stake."

"Is she a good thing or a bad thing in that scenario?" Zoe asked.

"You decide," came John's gravely voice. The line clicked off.

Root glanced at her, smiled, and then looked back at the road.

***

"Well, that was a success," Root said, closing the door to the hotel room.

Zoe tossed her purse and phone onto the bed. "Planting a bug in Dawson's office? Surely there are dozens of them, and he knows better."

"Yes, maybe. Things might be what they seem," Root said, shaking her head.

Zoe rolled her eyes. Five hours of Root was beginning to be enough. "Why didn't you want to join me in the meeting?"

"He might have memorized my face. The way you memorize faces. The old-fashioned way."

Zoe couldn't even must a groan of dismissal. 

"What you should really be asking," Root said, "Is why we're in this hotel room together."

"Listening to a wiretap?" Zoe asked.

She took in Root, dressed in a work-appropriate beige dress, and stockings, and heels. Every bit femininity and huntress. Her careless hair might have taken hours.

"Or, something else," Zoe said.

Root prowled over and rested her forearms on Zoe's shoulders. "Something else," she agreed, and leaned in to kiss her.

Zoe acquiesced, surprised and not surprised by firm lips and sharp nails against her neck. 

Root broke apart. "Is this something you just do?"

"When the mood is right. Why not?" Zoe asked.

Root kissed her again, hard at first, giving way to softness when Zoe turned, pushing Root against the door. She pulled away enough to brush Root's hair from her throat and kiss her there. She wondered if it would be fast or slow. If she should cup Root's breast or stray to her hip.

Despite the long car ride and the waiting, Root smelled good. Zoe inhaled, and nuzzled at her ear.

Root twisted away. "Stop. You're too sensual. Shaw wouldn't be sensual."

"Shaw?"

Zoe straightened up, but kept Root against the door, between her arms. 

"She'd be hard. Like she could break you in two, even though she's--she's small." Root looked away, out the window, which was nothing but a square of light.

"Did you fuck Shaw?" Zoe asked.

Root shook her head.

"But you think about it." Zoe touched Root's hip, bringing Root's attention back to her.

"All the time," Root confessed.

"Shaw's gone."

Root squeezed her eyes shut. Zoe waited. She'd heard all sorts of confessions from lovers. This one would probably be no different. She had her questions too.

"Are you Thornhill?"

Root blinked, her eyes open again, watery, sad. "No. I'm just taking advantage of an opportunity. Like you do."

"But you know who Thornhill is."

Root laughed. "You don't? That's right, you don't. Zoe Morgan, purveyor and protector of information, and yet she has no idea--no idea!--why John and Harold do what they do."

"So enlighten me."

Root shook her head. "No. No. I need information."

"I have lots of information, Root."

"Have you ever been with a woman?" 

"Lots of women."

Root reached up to touch Zoe's jaw, carelessly. Her thumb played over Zoe's lips. "I never have."

"Let me show you. It'll be like riding a bike."

Root smiled, quick and tender, not crazy. "Sameen kissed me. She kissed me and then she died saving my life."

"Sounds like Shaw."

Root nodded. "She'd do the same for Carter. Or Harold. Or you."

"But she wouldn't kiss us," Zoe said. 

"Shaw doesn't feel." 

"So she says," Zoe said. "I have my doubts."

"I wish I could not feel, like her. Then I could--I could do what is necessary. Instead I just walk around lovesick all day, thinking about sex, and--"

Zoe arched an eyebrow.

Root sagged against the door. "Killing the wrong people."

"Do you want to kill me?" Zoe purred.

Root shook her head. "You're too important."

"Do you want to fuck me?"

"Surprisingly, yes. Why would you?"

"You're in pain. I can help."

Zoe pressed her forehead to Root's. Root tilted enough to brush noses.

"John taught me to be a better person."

Root exhaled, her breath cascading across Zoe's cheek. "Yeah, he's trying that black magic on me, too."

Zoe took Root into her arms, maneuvering to unzip the back of her dress. "Shaw's dead. Jocelyn's dead. Either you or me is going to be next."

"Good point."

Root joined her in disrobing, and was finally, blissfully quiet. Zoe, taking her role as teacher seriously, as she always did, was patient enough to turn down the bed, even with Root kissing her shoulder. And was patient enough to pull down stockings without ripping them, to find an extra hairband in her purse for Root's hair, to turn on the television to hide the noise. 

Old habits.

When she finally lay next to Root, their bodies coming together too sensually, Root's tears dripping into her hair, she found Root wet and wanting. She purred in appreciation.

Root laughed, opening herself up to Zoe. "This is much better than research on the internet."

"I've always been an advocate of human intelligence." 

Zoe propped her head up on her elbow and lingered at Root's thigh. "Did you say something about wanting it hard?"

Root closed her eyes. "Break me."

***

"She's crying in the shower, Harold," Zoe said into the phone. "She doesn't think I can hear her."

"It's good she has someone to talk to. Maybe the feminine touch was needed. She hasn't responded very well to my efforts and John--John's been through too much."

"Okay. But. She's crazy."

Harold sighed through the phone.

"Is she really going to, I don't know, save the world? In this state?"

Root coughed behind her, and Zoe turned. Root leaned against the bathroom doorjamb, wearing a hotel bathroom. Her cheeks looked pink, and the rest of her bright red. Like she'd been scalded. 

Zoe clicked the phone off. "Shaw had feelings, Root. But she didn't let it get in the way of doing what was necessary. What was right."

"I know," Root said.

"What are you going to do now?"

"We're all just going to have to take it on faith, won't we? God has all the answers. All this bullshit 'knowledge' that you keep in your head, that I keep in my computer, it doesn't even scratch the surface. But not even God can predict what I'm going to do. I kind of like that. Some days. When I feel like a normal human being, and not so--" 

"Guilty," Zoe supplied.

Root looked past her, going to get dressed. "Sameen's not the only death I'm responsible for. She's not even the last. I don't even know if I want to stay and see it through until the end, or die first, and spare myself losing anyone else."

"I used to think humanity was scum and villainy," Zoe said.

"Bad code."

Zoe shrugged. "Then John made me save someone. That made them all worth saving, somehow."

"I know the feeling. It's terrible. I used to put all my faith in machines, because they were perfect, infallible, not as messy as humans."

"Used to?"

Root met her gaze. "And then I met an evil one."

"An evil what?"

"Isn't that funny?" Root picked up her purse and headed to the door. "They go to all this effort saving our souls, and then tell us that the soul is a liability. I wish they'd fucking make up their minds. Goodbye, Zoe."

"Wait--who?" Zoe called after her.

But Root was gone. Zoe looked at her phone, tempted to call Harold yet again, to plead for an explanation. But a text popped up. Thornhill sending her a phone number. 

Zoe clicked on the phone number, and it autocorrected to a contact in her address book. Maxine Angelis. She dialed, trying to compartmentalize Root as much as possible. Trying not to think about the picture on her nightstand, and about Root's words about the anguish of outliving good friends.


End file.
